


Let Me Take You to the Dark Side, Baby

by Troubled_Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Confused John, Confused Sherlock, Dark Sherlock, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Half of these tags don't even apply., How Do I Tag, M/M, Possessive!Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Reichenbach, Probably not., Understanding is an Issue, You may or may not get the feels, mental stress, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-20 18:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2438330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Troubled_Soul/pseuds/Troubled_Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Sherlock realises something.</p><p>John’s got an air of innocence about him. Not one of a naive, clueless nature to the flaws of the world, the wars, the bloodshed, the hate; but instead of a wholesome aspect, his mind untainted by the darkness, free of sinful thoughts and evil wishes. A complete juxtaposition to his own mind. John's eyes show hope in the direst of situations and his very soul is forged from empathy, altruism and compassion. His skin is scarred yes, but inside he’s pure, he doesn’t have the evil inside of him and even if he does, he doesn’t let it become a part of him. Blue eyes, fair hair, innocent, innocent, <i><b>innocent</b></i>. He’s the splitting image of morality. An angel. </p><p>Sherlock wants to be the one to desecrate that purity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Take You to the Dark Side, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone who actually reads my other story, yes, I know I haven't updated Science & Faith since... Forever, but, and that's a rather big but; I finished this baby! I've been working on this for a while because I had a little plot bunny which kind of grew into a plot monster.
> 
> And so here we are. 
> 
> I wanted to focus on how Sherlock's love for John subtly develops to the point where it's ingrained (engrained?) into his mind and how that affect his mindset because of his (supposedly) sociopathic nature. I must admit, I'm rather mean to Sherlock, I don't mean to be... Isn't everyone mean to our two boys?
> 
> Anyway, read on. But bring a cup of tea or something, this big fic is over 12,000 words...
> 
> Now, back to Science & Faith...

**Sociopath**

[noun] Psychiatry 

_An individual with a psychopathic personality characterised by extreme antisocial attitudes, lack of sense of moral responsibility and social conscience, and often criminality._

It says 'often', Sherlock observes, as he reads the definition off the screen of John's computer. Frequently, on many occasion, in the majority of instances, but not occurring every time. He's not a criminal. He likes finding criminals, due to solving cases, but he isn't a criminal himself. It’s a fact people have a hard time believing. So whenever he introduces himself as a sociopath, he is usually greeted by hostile behaviour and fear. Others think he's crazy, insane. They think that sociopathy, psychopathy, whatever; is a disease. And anyone diagnosed with it needs help or treatment.

Although strictly speaking, 'psycho' didn't mean 'crazy’.

Derogatory language.

Despicable.

Normal people are stupid and fail to see or comprehend the proper definitions of words. Not that it bothers him, nor does he care. Normal people cause problems, they get stuck in the stagnation of life and cause war. Normal people turn away from people who are different and try pull them into being normal too. Sherlock could never imagine a life where he was like that. The idea revolts him. He doesn't want to be normal. Everything he had, everything he did, this was his 'normal'.

He is a sociopath. He fits the criteria. But then add in him and the topic becomes much more subjective. John Watson, a perfectly normal name for a perfectly atypical person. From a glance, he looks reasonably normal. But beneath the layers of shields he's built up over the years, he’s a masterpiece of broken pieces shattered and stuck back together. Trust issues, left shoulder wound, psychosomatic limp, army doctor. He is extraordinary. Underneath the bulky jumpers, the layers of wool, cotton and denim, that calm demeanour and the soldier-like behaviour; is a man made of porcelain with a core of steel. He can say 'no' to Sherlock, he’s able to calm him down and work around the eyeballs in the microwave and the organs in the fridge. He praises him when he's right and sees things that he doesn’t. He is a beautiful person, a good person. Sherlock thinks of him as a friend. 

This is something that Sherlock ponders over more often than not. John Watson makes him not fit. He thinks of John as a friend. His only friend. So did that make him not a sociopath, or a sociopath with a friend? Sherlock decides, that there can be no definite answer, only many opinions, the scale varying, the line blurring from one extreme to another.

Never wrong or right, just different shades of the same colour.

Clearing the Internet history, he shuts the laptop lid, and closes his eyes. 

—

The moment that wretched man with the pills fell before him; blood blooming through his jersey like a blossoming flower- an offering for Death- he knows John Watson is not like the rest of humanity. He is  _interesting_. No one has ever kept his interest like John Watson, he is an ever-changing enigma, a carriwitchet. Sherlock had never had come into contact with someone he saw so regularly that was so deliciously unfathomable. Everyone became obvious after a while. Not John. Sherlock had been waiting, he’d been waiting those first few days in pessimism. Because he thought that he’d become predictable within the first few hours. 

But that click, that spark of understanding that always had Sherlock up and about, that undeniably exhilarating burst of everything piecing together in his mind like a puzzle.

It never came.

It still hasn't.

—

He was lying on the couch with a cold the first time it happens.

He forgets how to breathe.

And he doesn’t know why he forgets, nor why he’d want to delete it (because despite what he says, breathing is actually rather important). But whatever reason, it has him coughing, gasping greedily for air his body seems to reject, like a rasping blanket caterpillar. The tissues that had fallen around his head fly about with each wheeze he's giving. And then John’s there, talking, trying to calm him, soothe him, but it just makes him worse. His vision goes hazy at the corners and his mind is racing for answers, fever-dazed brain spinning messily like broken clockwork. It’s not possible to forget how to breathe. It’s unconsciously done 95.31% of the time, an irrepressible reflex. If he decides to hold his breath, his body would do the job for him.

It’s something that he doesn’t have complete control over. 

_What is this?_  He thinks, choking on air faster than he can breathe it in.  _Why am I acting like this? Stupid excuse of a body, stop it...!_

He has no idea why he's reacting like this about nothing.

It’s not until he wakes up in hospital, not coughing and finally able to breathe, that he realised what is wrong. 

“Signs of dyspnea; coughing, limited control of breathing…” he hears John listing his symptoms to the doctor on the other side of the curtain. 

Sherlock doesn't trust his own voice, so he turns towards the ones in the room, blocking out the droning beeps of the heart monitor and listening into the conversation. He wasn't eavesdropping, though some would say otherwise, he just liked to know things. His own condition was something he had the right to know. 

"... Elevated heart rate, but I suppose that was to be expected I guess... He went red as well, also understandable..."

He's seen those symptoms somewhere... He'd heard them come out of his own mouth, spat out in disgust and smug knowing. Irene Adler. The only woman to beat him. Elevated heart rate? Shortness of breath? Flushed? That was nothing like him. Possibly the fever, but then again, when John came he only became worse. All he needed was the dilated pupils and that would be the icing on the cake. 

_"Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side…"_

“… Thank you for the final proof..." Sherlock exhales quietly to himself.

—

Maybe deep inside, he is an animal. That's all humans are. They are just such an arrogant race that they separate themselves from the rest of the animal kingdom. But the truth is they are exactly the same. Push aside celebrities and cars and golf and all the other stupid things humans do or are, they are still animals. There is still a hierarchal system, they still adapt to their environment, they still use things around them to assist them and they still socialise in their own way. They just think that animals don't understand each other to a point humans do. But when was that ever proven? Each and everyone of them is animal, visceral, raw and wild. Driven by fear, envy and sentiment. Powered by emotion. They just don't know it. But Sherlock knows, he knows everything. 

And deep within, he'd just unlocked a beast inside him. 

—

Deep down, he knows that it's called sentiment (or 'love' as most people call it) that he's become victim to, but Sherlock isn't ready to admit that to himself yet. He hides the fact away, tucks it in a folder and locks it in a filing cabinet in the depths of his Mind Palace. But it always finds it's way back, slipping through the cracks of the draws and presenting itself in front of his face. Now that he's realised it, he finds himself thinking of it a lot more often. Perhaps when it was only his subconscious knew, something in his mind kept it away, denying all evidence of it being plausible. But now it's impossible to refuse and Sherlock can almost always feeling it, think of it... Always niggling at the back of his mind. The topic having ingrained itself in his long-term memory so he can never forget.

That small fact that could destroy him. 

It makes him weak, it gives his enemies something to target. This attraction is deadly and Sherlock knows that the best thing to do would be to push John straight out of his life, or vice versa. But he couldn’t do that for a thousand 10-level cases. Not for a lifetimes supply of cocaine, morphine and nicotine. Not for anything. Because John has entered his life as a mystery and Sherlock’s determined to solve him. This is something he has to do.

A fixation, he calls it, because it's not love. 

—

When Sherlock is looking back at John, staring at his own gravestone, he initially thinks it's a good thing. To have some time to himself.

John used to be a friend, a great, great friend, and he still is. He still is brilliant and fantastically regular in the most abnormal of ways. But now, now Sherlock can't even breathe around him. He finds that hiding it was beginning to become unbearable, a weight in his chest, heavy with forbidden secrets. But he doesn’t want John to leave, so he finds the only solution is to hide it.

When he’s actually there, tracking down Moriarty’s web and destroying it thread by thread, all he wants is John’s presence, his existence, just  _John_. He finds himself overcome with saudade, there’s no other word to describe it and it almost irks him because of it. When he’s in his darkest places, kidnapped and tortured and broken, he thinks of John. Thinks of his voice (" _Sherlock_ "), his eyes (cerulean? Cobalt? Azure? Sapphire?), his manner (straight posture, whistling, flitting eyes), the quirks of his eyebrows when he’s amused (and unimpressed, and surprised, and worried) and the flick of his tongue when he doesn’t know what to do (but only sometimes, other times he just does it  _because_ ) and he wonders why he can’t deduce him completely. Everything he knows about John is either halfway or non-existent. It just makes him want him more and more. It’s most likely one of the reasons Sherlock loves him.

Loneliness floods his veins, pulsing in his and settling in his stomach, a feeling that unexpectedly aches in his fingertips. 

_No, don't be ridiculous. I'm not in love,_  he thinks as he walks away,  _stop calling it love, this isn't love._

But he is and it's something that even he can't deny, but won’t admit. His body, his mind became attached, he's let the emotions creep out through the cracks in the walls keeping it away. A fondness for John Watson was going to be inevitable, wasn't it? He was everything Sherlock wants him to be and more. Everything that Sherlock has been looking for; someone who just can't be solved. Isn't that what love was about? Finding a person who you so deeply have become attached to?

God, he sounds disgusting. 

So when Moriarty said his heart was John, he was wrong. He's always had a heart for himself, he just doesn't quite know how to use it. 

—

They say; if you love somebody, you'll let them go. 

He's done both.

—

Sherlock comes back two years later and John tackles him to the ground in the middle of the street. Lucky it's nighttime, otherwise they would've caused quite the scene and Sherlock doesn’t particularly like attention for things like this. He ends up with multiple bruises and a bleeding nose which the doctor that usually treats them inflicted. He has to treat them himself. He finds out that John's moved out of Baker Street and into his own flat and that he's never really been the same since he left. No one had influence over John, no matter how many girlfriends he went through. It was always him. He was the only one who could make John  _alive_. 

Sherlock preens himself on this fact. 

So when he's sitting in 221B once again, a napkin held against his nose and an ache that pounds deep within his chest, staring at the empty space in John's chair, he begins to wish that John had beaten him to a bloody pulp.

It would make it a whole lot easier to hate him.

—

One of the things he became aware of in the first stages of this emotional calamity is that this is a war.

This is a battle between the two halves of the mind. Left and right.

Logic versus feeling

Reason versus emotion.

Of course, another thing he came to know was that this is a war he is destined to lose. He knows the effects of sentiment. He knows what it drives people to do.

Although, despite knowing that, he isn't going to give up without a fair fight.

—

John moves back in two weeks later, after he was trapped in a bonfire and Sherlock had pulled that prank on him in the bombed-up train carriage to genuinely try and get his trust back. Everyone discovers Sherlock’s alive, the cases come flooding in and so life appears to return to ‘normal’ in 221B. John forgave him, despite everything. Maybe it was because he saved him from the bonfire or maybe because he never really hated him. 

That’s wistful thinking on his behalf.

He finds that even after everything; both him and John don’t come across as awkward to each other. There’s no uncomfortable moving around each other and no need to be delicate. They fall back into their rhythm as if they’d never changed. It’s something Sherlock secretly revels in; their bond, their ability to walk together in time, step-by-step. It’s something he relishes in far too much, but he likes it, likes John too much to not relish in it. 

Sherlock eyes John as he sits in his chair, reading the newspaper. He’s lost a number of pounds, 4.5 to be exact, his jumpers hang off his small frame more that they used to. He looks like a shapeless potato sack. It’s almost like he’s trying to hide himself even more than he already does. Sherlock wants to rip them off and feel his body. Feel the ribs where they’ve become visible from under the skin and catalogue the scars he gained before Sherlock knew him. He wants to do lots to him.

But, of course, that’s wistful thinking on his behalf.

—

There’s many things wrong with him growing a fondness for John Watson.

One of those things is because of himself.

Sherlock is a dark person; in every sense of the word. He’s the monsters under the bed and the creatures lurking in the night, he’s the utter terror rushing though their veins when they’re faced with Death. He’s the blood, the guts, the gore; he’s the spiders crawling up shoulders, the thunder and lightning outside rattling windows, the cliffs they fall off in their nightmares. The sense of foreboding and evil, the Seven Deadly Sins; lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wraith, envy and pride, the villain of every fairytale. He’s the embodiment of pain and suffering, the enigmatic illusions behind the black shroud of the unknown. 

His mind is a dark place. Full of things so explicit they imprint themselves in his brain and stay with him forever, a lasting reminder of his true nature- he’s a bad person. He wants to do things which should be banned, forbidden, things which should be illegal but are only illicit. He has the capacity to destroy. Tear, rip, shred, crush, smash; he’s good at destroying things, destroying people. Like wildfire, he incinerates everything in his path; he burns things to the ground. 

How ironic.

No one would know these things though, he hides them well. This darkness isn’t visible unless it takes over him. When he’s in the wrong mindset and can’t control what filters in and out of his Mind Palace. It will slowly consume him, giving him bad thoughts and a sadistic outlook on things. He becomes dangerous.

A lot like now.

—

Sherlock's mind can no longer filter any thoughts on John away, so he's constantly thinking of him one way or another. He had no idea that he had fabricated an entire wing of his Mind Palace to the doctor. He spent hours exploring it at night, while John was asleep, searching through the facts and files and found that half of them didn’t even make sense. He must’ve made it subconsciously, must’ve made it looking at John everyday and taking in all the differences and similarities. Cases can no longer distract him and even heading to the morgue and belting a corpse doesn't help. As he tries to sample some type of mould he's been growing over the last couple of weeks his hands tremble so much dripping chemicals on the slides seems impossible now. John's flooded his thoughts so much he can't even focus on his experiments anymore.

Or anything in fact. 

When did his self control escape him? He used to be able to tolerate long periods of time without drugs when he desperately wanted them. He'd gone two years putting up with killing the men who'd helped destroy his life and being tortured when found out. This was nothing compared to that. Nothing.

"Five minutes." Sherlock murmurs to himself, taking the pipette and measuring out some hydrochloric acid.

"You can go five minutes without thinking of him." He exhales roughly, as if he's challenging himself. 

He clears his mind, and soon there's nothing but black behind his eyelids so he opens them again. Observations of the various objects around the kitchen table and the flat float across his vision, but that's fine, that’s perfectly fine. Normal. He nods in approval and continues with what he's doing. This plan appears to work, not that Sherlock's thinking of it working but then he sees something on the table that catches his eye.

A spoon.

Now something as simple as a spoon shouldn't even be eye-catching, but Sherlock can see the dried residue of tea and milk in the curve of the utencil. John made his tea with that spoon, their tea with that spoon. A couple of hours ago before he went shopping. And then his mind suddenly trails off and Sherlock's train of thought takes an abrupt detour and he's thinking of all the different times John's made him tea. There he is, again, it's all about John now. John, John, John.

John

_John_

**_John_**

An overwhelming feeling of rage washes over him. With a yell of frustration, he grips the neck of the flask and thrusts it base-first into the nearest wall. The acid that looks deceivingly like water splashes out on to his arm, glass shards embedding themselves into his palm. There’s blood and burning but he decides not to do anything about it. This can be punishment for his body betraying him. The acid trickles into the cuts on his hands and it stings, his skin is prickling in pain but he continues to ignore it. Instead, he focuses on the jagged edges of the broken flask digging into the wall, and for a moment, he feels a bit better. The outburst seemed to quench his frustration slightly. The recognisable shuffle of plastic bags and the thumps of something hitting the floor bring him back to reality.

"Sherlock!"

Turning, he sees John staring at him in alarm, and deductions about him rush through his mind faster than he can process them. Immediately, the doctor is at his side, hands nervously hovering over Sherlock's arm like flitting butterflies. The detective is staring down at him as he's analysing the wounds, trying to figure out what he's feeling, but all that comes to mind is John's soft breathing on his arm. Blue eyes stare up at him full of an emotion Sherlock cannot quite place before John is dragging him down the hall to the bathroom by his free arm. Within minutes, he's sat down on the closed toilet and his arm is being run under water in the sink. He gains a glare whenever he attempts to move, so he just lets his forearm be doused in water, dulling the sharp tingling. Soon his arm is in John’s hold and each glass splinter is being pulled from his skin with a pair of tweezers. Antiseptic is applied, then he’s wrapped him palm to elbow in white gauze. All with the careful touch of a doctor. 

He holds his breath the whole time. 

“What’s wrong with you, Sherlock?” John murmurs quietly.

Sherlock decides not to answer.

—

Deep breath.

In.

Out.

— 

He’s started dating again. Sherlock supposes it was bound to happen, seeing this is ‘normal’ and everything about their lives is in the process of returning to ‘normal’. He doesn’t return until late at night, and on some occasions, he doesn’t come back till the next morning. Engaging in useless coitus for a couple hour’s pleasure. One-night-stands usually, he never returns with someone, if he does, Sherlock scares them off. It annoys him that John’s attention is someone else’s, even if it is only for a couple of hours. John’s attention should always be aimed at him. 

_This possessiveness is uncharacteristic of me,_  Sherlock notes one day, when John is out on another one of his ‘dates’,  _John’s influence is becoming far too much._

There’s nothing to do in the flat and he’s already established that he can’t focus on anything long-term but John, the flask in the wall a great reminder of that, so he decides to go to sleep. Because that seems to be his only sanctuary, the only time where he doesn’t think of him. 

Even then, it’s not very peaceful. He sleeps fitfully, waking to find his mind still full of John. Eventually, he gives up and just lies there, listening to the creaks and groans of 221B, he flicks the lamp on and attempts to observe the room, managing to note what he should chuck out and maybe items he has a lack of. He doesn’t bother checking the clock beside him, time is something he has plenty of. John comes back some time later, if he’s calculating right, it’s 12.37 a.m. So he stops looking around his room and stares to the ceiling with blank eyes. He listens as John makes his way up the stairs slowly, tired, but content. Sherlock can’t help but breathily laugh at the situation.

He’s on his back, a sociopath lying on his bedsheets askew, counting the popcorn dents and the chemical stains and the old bullet holes on the ceiling. And he hears John’s footsteps in the room above him taking off his shoes. He hears the first shoe hit the floor and he’s looking up, he’s waiting because he thought that it would follow. Some logic, perhaps, something that makes sense. But it doesn’t. Nothing comes and here he is again. Here he is again. In the depths of his mind palace: his world doesn’t make sense.

And then a second shoe falls.

And a third.

And a fourth.

And a fifth.

—

He wants to love him.

But he’s scared that if he does he’ll destroy him in the process.

—

"How do you fall in love, John?" Sherlock asks a couple of weeks after that night. It’s been a rather quiet day so they’re sitting together in the living room watching a soppy love story on the television. At the moment, a couple are kissing. He sneers, and John giggles. It’s disgusting.

But then again, can he say much?  

"What?"

“You know I don’t like repeating myself," Sherlock yawns exasperatedly, but recites the question again as he tilts his head back, curls falling away from his face as he looks to John upside down. “How do you fall in love…?"

"... Why...?"

"Love is one of the top motives for crime..." Sherlock sighs, curling back into his original position and bringing his fingers to his lips. It’s a lie and he knows it. He just wants answers. "And I have come to the realisation that while I know what it is, and why it happens, I do not know how the actual relationship is formed.”

John is quiet for a long time. He doesn’t speak, yet he doesn’t appear to have ignored the question completely. He’s thinking, trying to figure out what to say. Sherlock watches him, the bluish light of the telly outlining his soft form, lighting his furrowed features in a glow that makes him look younger than usual. He’s wearing an old t-shirt and some flannel pants, knees brought to his chest in his own seat. He looks like a kid. His sandy hair is ruffled from when he dried it from his shower but hasn’t gone down and John hasn’t bothered to fix it. This is something which also adds to his unusually childish appearance.

Sherlock wants to run his fingers through it. 

"... I don't know," John finally replies, shrugging awkwardly and licking his bottom lip as he stares lazily at the screen. "It's not really something you can control, Sherlock. It just ‘happens', I guess... One day, you just see someone in a different light and you can imagine yourself with them in ten, twenty years. I really can't say. I don't think I've ever really been in love."

"So all your past lovers?"

"Infatuations," John muttered reluctantly. "I suppose. Never stayed with any of them, did I?"

Sherlock once tried to use the word 'infatuation' to describe his emotions for John.

He'd been proven wrong.

— 

There is a map, with John’s name as the capital. And he’s locked in a car, watching himself drive towards him from the backseat, wondering what on earth he’s doing.  _Where are you going? What the hell are you doing?_  Questions uselessly asked as he presses down harder on the acceleration. He’s driving towards him at 120 kilometres an hour and there are no detours, no dead ends, no cars in front of him to crash into and cars behind him to stop him from ever turning back. All the routes lead to John and all Sherlock wants is to be driving away, driving off the map entirely to a place where he doesn’t overflow every room in his Mind Palace.

—

"You could kill me." He says one day when John is polishing his gun after a late night case.

Triple homicide. Three completely different victims with absolutely no records. All dismembered. Body parts found in various parts of the city, rubbish bins, electrical wires, roofs, roads. Took him three hours to solve it. Spontaneous, no pattern, no order; sociopath. Murder? Of this level?  _Deranged_  sociopath. Substances covering the detached limbs and organs told him where the murderer took them to mutilate them. They found him in the process of his fourth.

They're sitting in the living room together, him lying along the length of the couch, coat and scarf off, and John perched upon the coffee table. He pauses his work and looks up, face painted with concern and confusion. John’s trying to read him, but Sherlock doesn’t allow anything to show through the calm face he has. He can’t allow John to see anything.

"I couldn't."

Sherlock reaches a hand out, taking the barrel of the gun- John's hand moving with him- and directs it straight towards his forehead. His finger is off the trigger, the safety is on and it isn't even loaded, but John still tenses, muscle freezing up at the sight of him with a gun to the head. As if he's scared that there really is a bullet in the back of the barrel, ready to shatter his skull. His eyes reach John’s and he sees the fear in them, that usually calm gaze turned to a wide, alarmed stare. 

"You could," Sherlock murmurs softly with a calmness that he knows John will find scarily unnerving. He presses the rim of the barrel deeper into his forehead, undoubtedly marking the skin. "You would.”

_You can._

_You will._

—

He starts to go on walks, just to get out of the flat, just to get away from John because it helps him not think of him so much. He’s running away from his emotions, he knows, but then again, it’s the only thing he knows how to do. John continuously asks him if something’s wrong, and he soothes his worries with a number of easy lies, coming off his tongue as if he means them. Of course, he doesn’t want to hurt the older man, yet he’s just setting himself up to hurt John by lying. He's great at destroying things.

“I’m simply learning London again.” He replies.

“I’m checking up on my homeless network.” He replies.

“I have a couple of errands to run.” He replies.

He does cases without John, making Lestrade wonder and Mycroft even drops in just to spite him, possibly putting up another camera in their bookcase or something. Oh well, it distracts him for a while, his annoying older brother had some usefulness, he supposes. Better than shooting smiley faces in the wall.

They both sense that something is different about him. Maybe they told each other. 

Lestrade approaches him after a case one time, when John is distracted with the paperwork.

“Are you okay?” He says. “Is there something up?” 

“Yes, I’m okay,” Sherlock replies. “No, there’s nothing ‘up’."

Mycroft sits in front of him a couple of hours later, when John’s out shopping.

“What is perturbing you so, younger brother?” He questions.

“Nothing.” Sherlock replies.

He was always good at lying.

—

One day, Sherlock realises something.

John’s got an air of innocence about him. Not one of a naive, clueless nature to the flaws of the world, the wars, the bloodshed, the hate; but instead of a wholesome aspect, his mind untainted by the darkness, free of sinful thoughts and evil wishes. A complete juxtaposition to his own mind. John's eyes show hope in the direst of situations and his very soul is forged from empathy, altruism and compassion. He skin is scarred yes, but inside he’s pure, he doesn’t have the evil inside of him and even if he does, he doesn’t let it become a part of him. Blue eyes, fair hair, innocent, innocent,  ** _innocent_**. He’s the splitting image of morality. An angel.

Sherlock wants to be the one to desecrate that purity. 

—

He wants to stop running, so rehearses what he's going to say, repeats it until he knows it off by heart like a mantra. When he finally turns around to face John, when he finally gets there, in front of him, the words escape him and the flat door behind him suddenly seems very welcoming.

He hates John, he thinks as he turns to run down the stairs, but he hates himself more. 

—

Whoever trusted him with a human relationship? It's not a good idea. It never was. He was made to be alone, he should be alone. Because of the way he works, the way he moves and the way he breathes. It's all different. That's why he doesn't work with others, he'll break them and they'll break him. It's like trying to force a puzzle piece into a place where it doesn't fit, pushing and prodding, trying to fit it in the gaps and peeling the edges and it hurts because it's a form of social control. Sociopaths don't feel, normal people do, one shouldn't try put them together.

But this…  _Feeling_... These dull waves of ache that start in his chest and resonate in his fingers and toes. Washing over him like nausea with such power he wants to buckle over and collapse, clasping at the niche in his chest where a heart might fit. Where he wants a heart to fit. John's heart. 

He calls it love, because now there’s nothing else to mask the fact.

_Human emotion, the root of my demise._

—

“Can you tell me a secret?” John asks softly one night from the kitchen where he’s making them tea.

Sherlock’s taken aback at the sudden request. His brow furrows at the smaller man, looking up at him from the couch. John doesn’t look back at him. He doesn’t move with any elegance, but in a smooth motion which reminds Sherlock of the way he speaks, smooth, soft, controlled.

Everything he isn’t.

“… A secret…?”

“Yeah,” John continues. “Something that I don’t know about you. Something that no one knows about you.”

“… I don’t have any secrets…” Sherlock says slowly. Although he knows otherwise.

"Everyone has secrets," John shrugs, as if it were something casual. "Including me. Tell me one.”

“What is this sudden interest with the confidentiality of my life?” Sherlock enquires, curious. Why?

“You’re avoiding my question.”

Sherlock thinks of what he’s been thinking of over the past weeks, months,  _years_. He thinks of the lying and the emotions he’d been hiding. He thinks of lying on his back in his bedroom wondering about what the man upstairs was doing, thinking at that moment in time. He thinks of soft blue eyes and ashen blonde hair and the loyalty of a man he doesn’t even deserve. 

“I don’t have any secrets.” He repeats, except more firmly.

John, however, isn’t at all fazed. He also isn’t convinced.

"You're a Consulting detective who solves ridiculous crimes and the type of guy to shoot a gun at a wall because you're bored," John huffed in amusement. "If you had no secrets, I would know everything about you. But I don't."

_You don't want to,_  Sherlock thinks bitterly.

—

They say love kills slowly.

Sherlock knows exactly what they mean.

—

Cars rush by, the noise of the waking city entering through their open window. He stares down at the street, the people, violin perched on his shoulder. He’s subconsciously playing a piece and even if he’s playing his beloved violin, even if they just came back from a case, there’s only one thing on his mind.

Or person, to be grammatically correct.

He can't breathe at all with John in the flat now, walking around, being there, just existing. He floods his brain by doing the simplest of things, opens the doors to the ever-growing wing of his mind palace dedicated to him, letting all the facts spill out. Scent, sight, sound, touch. Every observation, every analysis, everything he knows about John fills his mind mingling with the word mine, mine, mine.

**_MINE_ **

No, he has self-control.

He can control this. 

But as John looks over at him, a look of innocence and obliviousness on his features, it becomes evident that no, he can't control this. Because John doesn’t know what’s been going through his head for the past years and if he doesn't do anything about it, which he won’t, it will kill him. Because John doesn’t know what it’s like to be in a state of mental stress about something that can’t be  _real_. Sherlock's obsessed with him for the lack of a better word, he can't get him off his mind even when he tries. But he can't be obsessed with him, he can't be anything but a best friend because otherwise he'll lose the only person who he's ever thought worth of keeping.

He lost control long ago when John pervaded his memories. When he shot the cabbie way back when and they laughed at the crime scene. John's taken over his mind and he can't do anything to stop it. And it's frightening and overwhelming because Sherlock's never had this much lack of control and it makes him doubt himself. He’s gentle with his violin, he places it back in its case carefully, calmly. A complete juxtaposition of his next actions.

He runs.

He runs from the flat, a flurry of black and blue as he sprints down the stairs. It’s a sign John knows something is really wrong, and Sherlock can hear him calling his name, hears his footsteps trying to catch up to him as they burst out on to the footpath. He moves through the people as fast as he can. He doesn’t care if they fall over, he doesn’t care if they get hurt, he just wants to get  _away_. John’s running after him, moving through the mobs as he does. He’s got to lose him, John would tackle him to the ground if he needed to. And Sherlock knows he capable.

It takes every atom of willpower in his body not to turn around and look into John’s eyes. Blue as the sky, blue as the ocean, blue as Sherlock’s scarf and blue as the screw-cap, 150 ml bottle of methylene blue he keeps behind the mugs. He can imagine the worry, the concern, the confusion in those deep blue eyes, he can picture it in his head as he’s running away, see the question held in his gaze.  _‘Why?’, ‘What did I do?’, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’_. How, oh how he wishes to just run back to him and envelop him. Wrap his arms around him so tight that for a moment they fold into each other and become one being. Fuse together like particles in a reaction and become inseparable. But he doesn't look back because he's too busy running through the crowd and he doesn't think he could make himself keep going if he did. 

—

Night comes and so do the calls from John. 

Neither of them drive him home.

—

_Make me run,_  he thinks as he delves deeper into the night, coat flailing behind him like a dark cloak.  _Fire and blood, make me fight. Blood, guts, gore and all. Make a mess of me; go ahead, you won't be the one cleaning it off the walls. I'll destroy myself. I'll drive myself crazy if I can't control this. I'll burn up and explode like one of those silly supernovas you tell me about. I may be the end of myself, but don't worry, I'll go out with a bang, not a fizz._

_I'll make a mess of the both of us._

This sadistic side of him is consuming him. And perhaps that's why he began to distance himself. 

—

He does exactly that. He runs and runs and runs, crossing every street in London until he’s done it twice, not straying too much within their area and not staying anywhere for too long. He uses the roofs, not the paths, mainly not to get in peoples’ ways but also to not be seen. John’s definitely looking and he’s almost certainly gotten Lestrade and a team from the Yard on to case, and he stands out in crowds, so he’s been told. He doesn’t want to be found.

Darkness has fallen, the murky indigo dusted with grey. Clouds, city pollution. One night they’d been able to see the stars, but not anymore. He clambers up a building, there’s a modernised merlon on the top and in it, a small alcove which opens into the wall, just big enough to curl up in without being cramped. He hauls himself into it, catching his breath and wondering how on earth did he let his life get reduced to this?

His phone buzzes softly in his pocket, but he tenses as if someone has found him. After he realises what it is, it’s not entirely unwelcome. A ringtone he hardly ever hears. In his little hideaway, he pulls it out and eyes the caller ID, the light of the screen glaring at him, as if it was scolding him for being on his phone too late at night like a teenager. He answers the call, though doesn't speak.

_[Sherlock.]_

He hears his name, it goes through one ear and out the other.

_[I know you're there.]_

Leaning back, he brings the phone with him. The shuffling of his clothing being carried down the phone speaker for the person on the other side to hear. 

_[Running from something intangible, Sherlock?]_  Mycroft's calm voice runs through his head.  _[That certainly isn't like you.]_

"I'm not running." Sherlock murmurs, ever so quiet.

But Mycroft knows that's not true. He's been watching since he left the flat. Through the hundreds of surveillance televisions, he'd seen Sherlock run across the screens, all of the buildings, scale up all the walls and jump all the roofs. He’s seen where Sherlock hides and seen him thinking _‘Why? Why? Why?’_ , he knows what’s going through Sherlock’s head and is never going to let him live it down.  
 _  
[You're running from something that doesn't exist.]_

“That’s not going to stop me, is it?” Sherlock hisses through the speakers, voice hitched and panicky. He hates this, hates the doubt, hates the anxiety that floods his veins. “I don’t want to do anything I will regret.”

_[They’re looking for you,]_  Mycroft continues the conversation on a different point, knowing very well that Sherlock knows who ‘they’ are.  _[John, Mr Lestrade and a squad of Yard officers are trying to locate you. Knowing your headstrong flatmate, he won’t stop until he does.]_

“I know.” Sherlock groans, throwing his head back. He hates John’s persistence.

_[They care about you.]_

“And if you did, you would let me have my way,” Sherlock counters back, knowing his brother’s intentions to give them his location. He’s worried and he thinks the best way to help him to get him to talk. But not when talking might damage his and John’s relationship beyond repair. “You would know that I don’t want to be found and you would respect that. There’s nothing wrong with me, okay? There’s no need for me to be sought out, because I haven’t done anything wrong, or stupid. I just need space. If you respected me in any way… You would know that  _I need to be alone_.”

Mycroft is silent for a while, before he exhales sharply.

_[I’ll be watching you closely, Sherlock.]_

He hangs up.

“ _Thank you._ ” Sherlock breathes into the disconnected line.

—

He’s perched above the elegant frame of the window sill of Mycroft’s office when John finally goes to his older brother for help. And he doesn’t know he’s there, they both don’t. Well, that’s what he likes to think. He sits there, legs dangling down off the stone structure, listening in on their conversation as they speak. London’s streets still are full of people, walking through the lit paths. They don’t see him. He’s a part of the shadows for now, blends into the darkness perfectly, black coat concealing his form from view, even up against the pale stone walls.

“Where is he Mycroft?” he hears John say. He’s standing up, he refused to take the seat Mycroft offered him “Just tell me.”

“I’m afraid he’s hidden from my vision.” his brother replies softly. 

John is silent for a moment before he repeats more insistently. “Where is he?”

“I told you he’s hidden from-“

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” John yells angrily, Sherlock glances down towards the ajar window, as if he can see through the stone. “I know you know Mycroft! Tell me where he is!”

“John, I have already informed you that  _I don’t know_ ,” Mycroft says firmly, gentle and calm, angry in the most threatening of ways. “My brother knows me, too, he knows how I work.  _You_  know how I work,” he stood up, grabbing his umbrella (the tapping of the handle against the carpet), walking so he’s standing in front of John. "He’s memorised the map of this entire city, do you think he did so without learning where my eyes are? He may not be as smart as he could be but he’s not a complete idiot. Sherlock knows where I operate, he also knows where I don’t. He will use this to an advantage if it means he can be avoided at all costs.”

“But you have eyes everywhere!” John protests angrily. “You can see the whole of London and if you can’t, you have people who can…!” he pants with the outburst. “You’re the bloody British Government! You know where he is, don’t you?!"

There’s more silence, and Sherlock holds a hand to his mouth to stop himself from saying anything he’d regret. He doesn’t want to be found. As if he’s realised what he’s said, John moves, moves back towards the door, walking away slowly. He stops at the door, opening it and standing in the doorway, facing away from Mycroft.

“… Sorry Mycroft…” John apologises quietly. “I’m just-“

“I understand,” Mycroft interrupts, knowing what John was going to say. “Do know that I am as worried as you are, John."

Then the door closes, and there’s silence between him and his brother. There’s something about the silence which they can keep, it lets both of them hear what’s happening around them, what they are doing, what others are doing. It allows them to deduce. Sherlock keeps his hand to his mouth, knowing that Mycroft could pick up the noise. He does anyway, walking to the window. He doesn’t open it, nor does he look up at him. Instead, he stares at the streets; the same way Sherlock is. They both know what they’re looking for; Yard officers, John walking away from the building. All looking for him.

“You’re lucky I care enough to do this for you.” Mycroft sighs.

“I’m lucky you care at all.” Sherlock mutters, standing on the window frame and jumping back on to the roof.

—

John gives him a type of energy that makes Sherlock move so he calls it kinetic, transforming from chemical potential to cause him to go and Sherlock finds that perhaps he’d been running away from John the whole time.

—

_[I thought that you were running away from something .]_

“…"

_[But when he came to me, I saw in his eyes. I saw that he cared for you, that he wanted to find you.]_

"..."

_[I just want to say that whatever you are running from… Maybe it doesn’t have to be a fear]_

“…"

_[You might just have a chance.]_

“…”

He hates his older brother so much.

_“Don’t give me hope."_

—

It’s been two weeks since he ran out of the flat.

He still hasn’t been found.

They give up at night, which is stupid, because that’s when he comes away from the shelter of his buildings and walks the streets freely. When there’s barely anyone around and there’s plenty of dark places to hide in. He still hides away in alleys, still cautious. But the silence and tranquility of the empty footpaths gives him some semblance to calmness. He strays from Baker Street, the only street he doesn’t go down anymore, in fear of being found. There’s too much of a risk of John being there.

But suddenly, John is there. Standing in front of him no more than a few metres away. Right there.

How did he find him?

“I saw you once,” John says sullenly. “I saw you running across the rooftops opposite the flat at night. I assumed that’s when you came out of hiding.”

Sherlock realises that he must’ve said it aloud.

He doesn’t reply.

"What are you even running from Sherlock...?" John asks softly, standing in front of him in the middle of the darkened street. He's sad, he's angry, he’s hurt. He looks lost in a way which makes Sherlock want to embrace him and wants answers that Sherlock can't possibly give. Because  _what is he running from?_

His voice is rough when it escapes him, a raspy whisper. He hadn’t been talking lately. No one to really talk to. Nothing to really talk about.

“You.”

John’s look morphs from angry and stern to broken and confused.

_“Why…?"_

"I can't say."

"Look," John looks at him sternly, stepping towards him. Sherlock steps back, keeping the distance between them. "If this is important, if you need to run away because of…  _Something_ … I need you to tell me…” His breath hitches before he manages to continue with a wobbly voice. “Because I lost two years because of you… And I… I… You can’t leave me behind… Not again… You can’t just run away without telling me what’s happening Sherlock..."

"John," Sherlock's throat goes dry saying his name. “I destroyed Moriarty in those two years. That’s over."

"... Then why...?” John’s face changes to lost, confused, he makes Sherlock want to hold him close. “Tell me Sherlock, why are you running away from me? Did I do something? Are you in trouble and trying to protect me?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

"I need you to talk to me,” John states firmly. “I need you to tell me what’s going on with you."

“… This is me," Sherlock admits, holding his arms out as if gesturing to himself. “This is my own problems."

"So why can’t you tell me…?” John questioned incredulously.

_Because you’d hate me._

_Because I wouldn’t know what to do._

_Because I want to do so many bad things to you._

_Because I’d hurt you._

_I want to destroy you._

_I will destroy you._

_Desecrate you._

_Ruin you._

_Your purity._

_Your innocence._

_Your being._

All one big answer to the same question.

But all the wrong words, all words which would drive John away. So he seals them in an envelope and locks them away in a safe in the depths of his chest.

“… Because… I can't..." He shakes his head and turns, beginning to walk away. 

Behind him, John pulls a radio from his jacket. “Salisbury Place."

Sherlock’s eyes widen; this was a plan to bait him out, he realises as he begins to run, John straight after him. Around the corner, he hears cars skidding down the roads so he ducks into the nearest alleyway, using the pipes and ladders to scramble up the walls in a hurry. He hauls himself up on to the roofs, marking out a route to get out of the police’s sight to hide. Lestrade is yelling from down below, obviously having seen him climbing up.

Adrenaline is pumping through his veins, but not the good type, like when he and John are running after a criminal, but more like a ‘everyone-thinks-there’s-something-wrong-with-me’ type. Which isn’t at all wrong; because there is something wrong with him. But it’s something a part of him wants to embrace. Maybe he just doesn’t like the way everyone thinks that he needs help. He doesn’t need help, he just needs time to think, time to think without thinking of John.

He runs like a maniac, sprinting across the tiles and concrete as quick as his body will allow him to. Glancing to the side, he can see cars driving next to him down on the roads before he has to slip down a ladder into another alleyway in order to get to the next block of buildings. He dashes into the open, eyeing the closest wall with some way to get up to the roofs. Then there’s the zip of something moving really fast past his head. And he doesn’t have time to check what it was, but he knew it was intended to make him stop. He moves in a zig-zag motion to make himself harder to hit but he knows that won’t keep him safe for long. He needs to hide, but the nearest building is a good few metres away. And then there's a sharp sting in his arm. Sherlock stops and stares down. A tranquilliser dart. He pulls it out quickly, chucking it on the ground and keeps running. He can keep going... He can fight it... 

J u s t 

A  l  i  t  t  l  e. . . .

L   o   n   g   e   r. . . .

—

_John wouldn’t leave me._

_John wouldn’t abandon me._

_John wouldn’t hurt me._

_Yes,_  Sherlock thinks,  _he would._

_John wouldn’t help me._

_John wouldn’t care about me._

_John wouldn’t love me._

_No,_  Sherlock thinks drowsily,  _he wouldn't._

The pessimist and the optimist of him fight for the same side of the war inside his head.

— 

He wakes up in hospital again with an IV in his arm and a great sense of failure heavy in his gut. How long had he gone without food? Without sleep? Was it really that bad that he needed fluid administered intravenously? He looks at the arm the IV is in, it’s skinny (he was always skinny), the muscle seems for defined (climbing? Probably) and the veins on his wrist seem extremely prominent (less subcutaneous fat, exercising his arms, and paler skin. His veins were always pretty visible). It’s gaunt. He brings this hand to his forehead and sighs. The other, he discovers in the process of attempting to run a hand through his hair, is handcuffed to the bed. The wrist is so skinny that there’s quite a bit of room to move it, even when attached to the bed rail.

Sherlock looks up to see Lestrade standing there, arms folded and expecting answers.

_Answers,_  Sherlock thinks,  _what everyone always wants but can't have._

“Why am I handcuffed to the bed?” he asks curiously.

Lestrade looks down at him blankly. “Because you tried running from the police.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“… You ran away, that’s where you went wrong.”

“There’s no law in running away.”

“No, there isn’t. But, you don’t just up and run away for two weeks just  _because_!” Lestrade said coldly. “People don’t just do that.”

“I do.”

“Even you don’t.”

Sherlock silences, he continues to look up at the DI. He’s genuinely concerned, the bags under his eyes telling Sherlock that he’s had more than a couple sleepless nights chasing after him. It reminds him that Lestrade was also the one who saved him from glutting himself on white powder, coloured syringes and toxic smoke by finding him and letting him in on the cases. He’s done a lot for him.

Sherlock knows that he owes him a lot.

“You told me you were okay.” Lestrade states.

"I am."

“You can’t say that when you’re lying there handcuffed to that bed," Lestrade sighs exasperatedly. "You ran away for fourteen days, two weeks without telling us, without telling John, where the hell you were going or what the hell you were doing. We thought you’d fucking lost it. John thinks he’s done something wrong. You told him you were  _running away from him_  but he’s done nothing wrong!”

His gaze is does not waver, he keeps his face stoic, he can’t give anything away. No one must find out because that means that John is one step closer to knowing the deep, dark secret he’s been keeping for years.

_Lock it away, keep it hidden, let no one see._

“There is nothing wrong with me.”

"Oh, don't give me the whole 'I'm-a-sociopath’ shit,” Lestrade scoffs. “We both know that’s not true."

“… What do you want me to say…?” Sherlock murmurs hoarsely, voice still rough from underuse.

“The truth,” Lestrade says, gently, concerned. “… What did John ever do to you…?”

He has to break their staring contest because this was the one thing he doesn’t want to answer. He can’t answer it. He’s barely admitted it to himself. Lestrade’s gaze on him intensifies, eyes narrowing as he’s scrutinising him, observing him in a way Sherlock does. The silence in the room answers all the questions the DI has asked because his movements, his actions, breaking eye contact, shying away, his face is probably red too. He’s shown Lestrade his answer by simply moving. Sherlock turns back to him, and he can see the look of realisation and shock and understanding through his features. He knows.

“You’re in love with him.”

And it really hits home then, because he’s never heard the fact aloud. Not even by himself. This is the first time ever that he’s heard that yes, ‘he is in love with him’ and it’s scary. Somehow, hearing it out loud makes it a whole lot more real. It’s like running into a brick wall. Because Sherlock’s been running and running and running away from the phrase but now it’s been presented to him unwillingly, he knows it’s true. It hurts because it’s a slap to his conscience. This is real; he is in love with John Watson. 

“… Yes…” Sherlock whispers.  

_It's the only thing I really know anymore._

Lestrade steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and rubs in a motion he thinks is meant to be comforting. It isn't. 

“… How long…?”

“ _Years_ …” Sherlock breathes in disbelief, head lolling towards the window on his pillows. “I’ve loved him for  _years_ …”

It almost feels good saying it out loud.

— 

Despite his talk with Lestrade, Sherlock unlocks the handcuff and runs away before John can come in to see him, leaving nothing behind but the open window. He makes his way back to Baker Street and he dresses in his usual outfit of a suit, his coat. It smells like home and most of his experiments have probably been ruined over time but he can’t stay. He can’t be here when John returns because he still isn’t ready. He comes to a realisation when he’s tugging on his cobalt scarf. The one that reminds him of John’s eyes.

“Ready to go out and face the world…” he says to himself. “But what’s the point if you’ve got no where to go?”

He runs down the stairs anyway.

—

_“If we wait until we’re ready, we’ll be waiting for the rest of our lives.”_

—

He’s walking down the street at four a.m on a wet Wednesday morning when John finds him for the second time. It’s like walking through a waste town, there’s no sign of life at all, curtains closed and lights off, well, in this part of town anyway. The rain is torrential, it’s bucketing down. His hair is plastered to his face and he’s drenched from head to toe, his coat weighting him down massively. It’s loud too, the smack of droplets against concrete.

It clears his mind.

Sherlock himself doesn’t know that John found him until there’s arms wrapped around his waist and a solid weight pressed into his spine. He freezes, muscles locking up as he turns his neck back to see a head of sodden, ashen blonde hair buried into the soaked wool of his coat. Once again, John manages to look like a child, so small against his own form. His eyes aren’t visible and his coat is thick and the rain is too loud to hear if John making any noise, Sherlock still knows he’s crying.

John never cries.

A part of him feels bad, he caused John distress, he’s caused him to worry for months. But if he hadn’t left, Sherlock wouldn’t know what he would’ve done. He could’ve done anything, from attacking him to pushing him up against a wall and kissing him so hard he fell to the ground. He’s unpredictable, he didn’t used to be, but because of John, he is. 

“Please don’t run away,” he whispers into his coat, soft, desperate,  _broken_. “I want you to tell me what’s wrong…"

“I can’t…” Sherlock replies in the same hushed tone, because he too is desperate and broken. John’s there, in his head, holding on to his waist. He’s everywhere. Sherlock can’t think straight, he’s going to do something stupid. He knows it. “I… I can’t…"

“Yes you can,” John cries silently into his back. “You don’t have to be so afraid, Sherlock… You can tell me…”

Sherlock moves his frigid hands to come over John’s, fingers digging under his palms to try and pry them off him. But John clings to him tightly, pressing himself to his back so Sherlock can feel the heat radiating from his body. It’s a welcome warmth from the chill of the downpour.

“Don’t run…” John repeats. He grips to Sherlock’s front as if it’s the only thing he knows. “Stop running away from your fucking problems and tell me…”

“John…"

“Tell me what’s wrong… Tell me what I’ve done wrong just… Please…” John says brokenly, still refusing to look at him. “… I don’t even know who you are anymore…”

He wants to run. He wants to go hide. But then he can see John’s despair, his anguish.  _Why, why? What did I do wrong?_ And he can’t bring himself to move. It’s in this moment, at four a.m on a wet Wednesday morning, the sky still dark, that he realises that this was inevitable. John was going to find him eventually, and sooner or later he’d be forced to admit the hidden secrets in those darkest corners of his mind, of his heart. His breath hitches and waves of hurt roll through his chest with the force of his beating heart. And still, he doesn’t know how to do this, he doesn’t know how this whole thing works so he babbles. He hates babbling but there’s so much whirring around in his brain and he needs to get it out.

"I can't be in love with you…” Sherlock breathes in disbelief, much like the first time he said it aloud. He sounds delirious. "Because even when a sociopath does feel emotions, they're always some twisted idea of the real thing…” John’s quivering against his back but he’s not sure if it’s because it’s cold or because he scared him. “ ... This isn't love. This is a screwed-up idea of you being mine…”

Sherlock moves out of John’s grip, which had loosened as he spoke. He turns to face John, stepping a few feet away so there’s some space between them. A rant, this isn’t babble, it’s a rant. This is everything that he’s had bottled up in his head these last few weeks, months, years and now the lid is off, everything is just pouring out with no sign of stopping.

"I want to own you John, to dominate you, to completely devour you,” Sherlock whispers in fear because it scares him how easily he can say it, staring straight into his eyes. They’re as blue as ever, dark and rippled with tears like rocks skimming a pond. “… I want to be the one to take you apart… But… I can’t do that… Not to you… Not to you…"

“… It’s okay Sherlock…” John tells him gently, hands by his sides. They’re trembling. “It’s okay Sherlock…"

“No, it’s not!” Sherlock yells out in frustration, gripping at his hair and turning away. "You don't understand! I want to break you... I want to tear you apart. I want to destroy you… I’m dangerous… You should run… “ Sherlock looks down at his feet, trying to make sense of the world. “I can’t breathe with you in the room. I can’t breathe with you anywhere. It hurts, it just drives me more…!” He turns, facing John with the monsters he’s created in his mind. "I’ve been continuously thinking of you since the flask! I can’t stop, you’re always in my head! I’m obsessed with you and it’s driving me insane! There’s a whole wing in my Mind Palace dedicated to you! You and your purity and innocence… I want to desecrate it... I want to desecrate you!” Sherlock’s voice quivers as he shouts, he’s angry, angry with John, angry with himself, just angry because there’s no control, just emotion, doubt and impulse. “… But you're a good man, John... Much better than what I am worth..."

“… I'm not scared of you Sherlock.” John whispers firmly.

"Oh, but you should be,” Sherlock steps towards him, eyes narrowed. John’s hands still as Sherlock looms over him. “You bloody well should be.”

He needs time to formulated what to say, time to think of the right words so he doesn’t drive Sherlock away more than he already has.

“… You aren’t a bad man, Sherlock...” John says staring right at him. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

He is ready for that reply, he anticipates it, and he’s ready with a comeback.

"I hurt those who try to help me and destroy the kindest of people,” Sherlock growls. "You don't know what I'd do, John.”

John shakes his head, he shakes it again in refusal.  _’No… No, no that’s not true…’  'But it is, John'_. And Sherlock expects him to run, run far away and never look back. He can see the fear in his eyes because whatever this is has changed him into a monster, a demon running on emotion, greed and lust. He’s still crying and Sherlock begins to turn to run for him. But he doesn’t get the time, John lunges forwards, he wraps himself around him, burying his face into Sherlock’s chest. The air is forced from his lungs as John hugs him, arms tight around his midsection. He’s quivering, shaking but he holds on to Sherlock like he’s scared if he lets go, he’ll be gone. It’s all sodden fabric and chilled skin, Sherlock’s breath pouring out as mist from his lips as he looks to the sky. His hands remain at his sides, unwilling to hold on to the body he wishes to own.

“I’ve seen what you do,” John murmurs into his collar. “And what you do is save peoples’ lives.”

“I don’t save people.”

“You saved Mrs Hudson…” John counters knowingly. “And Lestrade… Didn’t you? And you saved me… You’ve saved me so many times…"

Sherlock can’t say anything to deny that because it’s true. He did jump off St Bart’s to save his three only ‘friends’. He did pull John out of a bonfire. He did fix his limp and give him life. So he shakes his head as he stares into the rain, whispering softly, trying to stop John from doing anything bashful.

“I could hurt you…” 

“You wouldn't.” John immediately replies.

**_“You won’t."_ **

“I could kill you.”

“You couldn’t.”

**_“You can’t."_ **

“You should get away from me.” He insists.

“Well, we both know that’s not going to happen, don’t we?” John huffs back.

“I am a monster, John."

“You aren’t."

“But what if I am…?” Sherlock emphasises the ‘am', refusing to look down at the smaller body pressed against his own. “What if I-“

“High-functioning sociopath, remember?” John interrupts him, voice soft, soothing. “Not a psychopath, Sherlock.”

Sherlock remains quiet.

“… I once read an article on the difference between a sociopath and a psychopath…” John hums quietly. “Sociopaths have the ability to make attachments. Sociopaths can feel… There’s nothing wrong with it, Sherlock…”

He knows, he knew from the start. He just ran from the fact, run away from emotion, feeling, sentiment,  _love_. He just didn’t want to admit it. But what’s the point in that when you already know the truth? He inhales sharply, still looking to the heavens. John’s still latched on to his front and Sherlock’s using all the self-control he has to stop himself from holding him back. So he says it. Well, he tries. It’s all a few gargles and strangled words at first.

“I…”

“Ergh…”

“L… John…”

He coughs, clearing his throat and repeating the phrase in his head like a mantra until he’s sure that’s all that will come out.

“… I love you…” Sherlock closes his eyes, forcing the words out of his mouth. "I love you so so much that it hurts. But I can't. I can't love you. I can't do this to you. I can't..."

John’s quiet while he prattles on and on. Sherlock hates the silence, even if he can hear his own voice. But then he’s moving, a hand is carding through his hair. Soft, smooth, comforting,  _John_. He keeps his eyes closed, unwilling to open them until John taps them.

“Hey…” he says. “Hey… Look at me Sherlock…”

Sherlock opens his eyes, John’s smiling, a gentle smile. His smile; the one he gives everyone because he’s just nice like that. Unlike Sherlock. He’s so happy… Why’s he happy? How can he be so… Cheerful…? So calm, so controlled, so perfect, everything Sherlock wants him to be. Everything Sherlock wants to be. Sherlock's face contorts to despair, confusion, loneliness. He doesn't know anything anymore.

“It's okay," John smiles, moving his curls out from in front of his eyes. "It's fine. It's all fine."

"I love you too.” John says, hand still running through his wet curls. “I love you too you incredible bastard...”

The floodgates open at that point because now, now there is nothing holding him back, no hesitance, no fear of rejection, no fear of disgust, just him and John and emotion. And it’s there and it’s alive and it washes over him with such intensity that Sherlock realises that it’s not just a weakness, but also a power. And it’s a force to be reckoned with. Because it drove him insane, it made him doubt, it gave him hope, it let Sherlock experience everything he’d sheltered himself from, it gave him darkness and it gave him light. Sentiment made him protect John from himself. It gave him the power to run. 

But it also made him stop.

So he brings his arms up and wraps them tightly around John, holding him close and revelling in the feel of his form squeezed against his own. He becomes overwhelmed by the feeling to dominate him, an overwhelming feeling of power and control. Sherlock grabs him by the shoulders and forces him up against the nearest wall. But he knows that this probably isn’t what John was he was expecting, and then the doubt makes itself known again and he holds himself back. He stops, he steps back and squeezes his hands into fists at his sides. John remains up against the wall, quiet but panting at the sudden action.

“You have this time to run…” Sherlock looks down the street instead of meeting John’s gaze. “I won’t bother you again if you do.”

But John just laughs and pushes himself off the wall until he’s standing in front of Sherlock with a coy smile on his face. 

“Not a chance."

Sherlock exhales roughly and the doubt disappears and he launches himself at him again. He crowds John up against the bricks and he attacks his mouth with his own, with his tongue, his teeth, his lips. And John lets him, lets him tyrannise him, lets him plunge his tongue into his mouth and map out every crevice of his teeth. He feels John’s hands moving up his chest, moving to grasp his shoulders, but he doesn’t let him, he grabs John’s wrists and holds them above him and makes him take everything Sherlock gives him. Their teeth clack together as Sherlock explores his mouth and John tilts his head to accommodate him. So Sherlock pushes more.

It’s sloppy, it’s wet, there’s blood and it tastes  _good_. There’s nothing around them, the rain falls, the night passes and there are two men embracing amongst it. John pulls away with a gasp and Sherlock gets to fully observe him up close. His lips are red and swollen, the bottom lip and his teeth are smeared with blood, he’s breathing deeply and so is Sherlock, and he realises that he can finally breathe again, finally feel the oxygen enter his bronchioles and dissipate from his alveoli and into his bloodstream; he can feel it in his veins. A gigantic weight has been lifted from his chest and for once, his mind is no longer overflowed with worrying thoughts, but instead a small hum, a natural hum. John’s blue eyes look up at him with the gaze of an angel but his body says anything but. His face is that of debauchery. And Sherlock loves it.

“I said I'm dangerous.” Sherlock says lowly, voice low, husky and threatening.

“You said I should run,” John replies, looking anything but threatened. “So I came running."

Sherlock takes him by the hand, all but dragging him back to Baker Street.

—

The moment they get behind the locked doors of 221B, Sherlock is pushing John towards his bedroom, on to the bed, crawling on top of him. Power, control, dominance, mine, mine,  ** _MINE_**. John laughs at his vigour, running his hands through his curls as he sits them both up on the bed covers.

“I didn’t know you knew what to do when it came to relationships,” he murmurs as he shrugs off his coat. His eyes are still red from crying but he looks content. “I thought you would be a bit more awkward.”

“I may be an asexual but that doesn’t mean I’m oblivious,” Sherlock helps with removing his clothes, tugging his t-shirt over his head before resuming to ravish his lips. Cautiously, he murmurs against his lips.

“... I know what I want to do to you.”

John flushes a bright red, a pretty red. It's nice knowing that John knows too.

“Hey, hey, hey, no need to rush,” John pulls away from Sherlock’s needy lips and starts unbuttoning his shirt, face pressed into his collarbone. His breath ghosts across Sherlock’s skin and it sends chills throughout his body. Sherlock cards his fingers through John’s short hair and smooths his hands over the exposed skin, as if he’s reassuring himself that John is actually here and not part of his Mind Palace. John kisses softly at his clavicle.

“I’m still here Sherlock." He whispers. "I'm not going to leave."

His shirt falls away from his body, skin cold from the rain that managed to wet the fabric. He pulls John’s head from his neck to look him in the eyes. He’s smiling, and he looks like he could cry again, but this time from happiness. Sherlock lets his hands wander across his body, ticking all the ribs and gently pushing the purple shirt from his shoulders. He removes it slowly, discarding it somewhere on the floor before his arms wrap around John’s smaller body and hold him close. It smells like wet skin, home, the rain and them. John smells like the body wash he uses with a hint of tea and something uniquely _John_. It’s intoxicating and Sherlock leans into his neck to breathe it in, nipping at the skin. He leaves big, red marks which he knows will darken to a deep indigo that everyone will be able to see, leaving John moaning in pleasure but begging him to stop. He doesn’t want anyone to see. 

Unacceptable.

“ _Mine_.” He growls possessively. His hands move to John’s belt, unbuckling it as he moves inexorably forward to kiss him.

They fall against the bed together. From there, it’s friction, heat, skin-on-skin and the heady scent of arousal and lust. Sherlock turns John to a panting mess with their lips locked and his tongue invading his mouth so much that John has no choice but to take it.

—

He never really cared for post-coital talk. But he finds it rather nice listening to John’s voice after a bout of intense love-making. He’d heard him moan, scream, cry out in ecstasy because of him, and Sherlock had definitely had fun drawing out everything from the smallest whimper to the loudest groan from his lips as he’d taken him for himself. It’s rough, his voice, ragged with the amount he’d screamed tonight. Something about it was undeniably satisfying. While it had quenched his desire for now, Sherlock knows he has to stake his claim once again soon. Tomorrow, maybe even in the morning.

They’re tangled now, still nude, legs twined together under the sheets, sticky with sweat and semen (neither of them could be bothered getting clean ones). Sherlock spots his shirt hanging off the bookcase, and John's jeans off the door handle. John’s practically splayed over him, drawing patterns with his finger over his heart and Sherlock finds this soothing, looking down at John’s face rather than up at the ruined ceiling.

“I love you.” John whispers into his chest, through his skin, trying to touch the heart that no one though he ever had.

He heard John's heart, heard it beat at 150 beats per minute for him when he’d taken him apart under his touch.

He’s still a bit afraid. He still doesn’t know what he will and won’t do to John. The darkness is always lurking in the corners of his mind. Want, need, desire, lust, greed, mine, mine,  ** _mine_**. But he trusts himself to look after him, this amazing being he had the privilege of meeting, the kindest soul. He will do everything in his power to protect John Watson because he is his. He belonged to him from the moment they met. He brings John closer to him, shuffling him up his body until John’s face is nuzzling his neck again. Something about his arms being around him feels right, he’d hold John forever just to show his ownership. Because John is his, his, _his_.

He's learnt how to love between darkness and light, sanity and delirium. He's learnt to love by running and running and finally giving up. He's learnt to love by being told he’s not twisted, he’s just human. He won’t hurt John, he wouldn’t do anything to put him in harm’s way. He's learnt to love between spit-slicked kisses and dominating John, meaningless words that mean everything, desecrating innocence and creating something new. Something worth fighting for.

The moon shines through the curtains, high in the sky. For once, he's not looking up at it from the depths of an alleyway, but instead from his own bed, with John curled up to him keeping him warm. He's beautiful. It makes his heart ache with emotion, emotion that he fully welcomes.

Sherlock presses his lips to John’s head, rubbing the thumb of his hand over the small of his back, skin smooth, soft, warm. The other hand lies by the side of his head, John's smaller palm (the one unoccupied by swirling invisible markings over his chest) running up the skin of his forearm to slide into the cradle of his own. Sherlock twines their fingers together the same way their legs are, clutching to John's digits tightly.

He whispers quietly into his temple, trying to engrain the words into his mind the way John did to his heart.

_John_.

“I love you too." 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god that was a mission...
> 
> Anyway, there are several songs which inspired this, most of which represent either scenes or feelings in the fic. I don't know, I find music a great source of inspiration when I'm writing.
> 
> So, here are the songs:
> 
> Please Don't Go- Barcelona (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJtHg9FbLUA)  
> Anna Sun- Walk the Moon (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KlIeCJWevCI)  
> Half of My Heart- John Mayer (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLFa-co-0-8)  
> Swallowed in the Sea- Coldplay (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yr10A8GTz1g) 
> 
> I hope the links are okay. 
> 
> Also, did anyone get the literature reference in here? I'd like to know if you did.
> 
> Thanks for reading and please remember to kudos and comment~


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